


Falling (in Love, and in Other Ways)

by paint_me_a_revolution



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale Is Soft, M/M, Tea-drinking, but i figured i'd tag it just in case, but so is crowley, but with a healthy helping of Soft Things, it's not that bad, semi-graphic depictions of the Fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 05:18:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19244614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paint_me_a_revolution/pseuds/paint_me_a_revolution
Summary: Aziraphale wants to know what it was like to Fall. Crowley isn't sure how to explain it.





	Falling (in Love, and in Other Ways)

     “It didn’t really hurt,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale knows he’s lying because his mouth pinches into a tight line and he hides behind his sunglasses.

     “Didn’t it?”

     Crowley wrinkles his nose. “Not the way you’re thinking,” he mumbles into the table. He still won’t meet Aziraphale’s eyes, something that worries the angel more than he’d care to admit. “Was more…I dunno how to describe it, really. It was…”

     “Beyond description?” Aziraphale suggests. He takes a sip of his wine, but it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Funny. Hadn’t he remarked just a minute ago on how exceptional it was? Setting it down again, he focuses on Crowley, who’s focused on burning a pattern into the wooden table with one pointer finger.

     “Yeah,” the demon says gruffly. “Something like that.” He knocks back the rest of his wine and pulls a face. “That’s disgusting. Where’d you pick it up, Angel, Poundland?” 

     “I don’t think Poundland sells wine,” Aziraphale snaps.

     “Don’t be ridiculous. They sell everything.”

     Aziraphale takes a deep breath. “Don’t change the subject,” he pleads. “I want to know.”

     The furrow of Crowley’s brow suggests it’s not a subject he’d like to linger on. He takes another sip of his wine, grimacing, and says, “I don’t know what to tell you, Angel. I can’t describe it.” 

     “Try.” An idea comes to Aziraphale, so suddenly it leaves him spinning. How stupid he was not to think of this in the first place. “Or…do you think you could show me?”

     “Show you?” The furrow deepens. Crowley nods. “Might work. I just…don’t really know _how._ Can we do that?”

     Aziraphale shrugs. “Wouldn’t even know where to begin,” he says. “Would you care to try?”

     Crowley shrugs, a deceptively loose gesture. “Why not?” The demon reaches for Aziraphale’s hand. “Let’s give it a go.”

 

     It takes a little while to figure it out. They try holding hands at first, but Crowley’s keep trembling and Aziraphale can’t focus on anything but how _warm_ they are. Crowley tries closing his eyes and _forcing_ the memory into Aziraphale, but that doesn’t do much, either, except leave both of them with a rather nasty headache. It’s almost an accident, really, when it works.

     And _oh._ The pain is like nothing Aziraphale’s ever felt before. He’s cold all over, the wind rushing past his wings, and he can feel the strength of it tearing out each of his feathers at the root. He wants it to stop, would give anything to make it stop, and then—and then it's over, the fall, and there’s a different kind of pain, as every one of his bones breaks and then his whole body knits itself back together again. It pushes the air from his lungs, and Aziraphale separates from the memory coughing and choking.

     “That was horrible,” he says when he’s caught his breath. “Truly, it was awful. Crowley—“

     “Please don’t.” Crowley’s voice is hard and dark. “Don’t say anything, Angel. I don’t want your pity.” He’s _begging,_ Aziraphale realises with a jolt. His stomach clenches.

     “All right. I won’t.” But Aziraphale can’t stand to be useless, so he straightens out his waistcoat and says, “Might I make you a cup of tea?”

     Crowley’s lips twitch. “You might.” He takes a long, slow breath through his nose and lets it all out again. “No sugar.”

     Aziraphale bristles. “I _know_ you don’t take sugar, Crowley! We’ve known each other for six _thousand_ years and you think I don’t know how you take your tea? Honestly.”

     “I’ve just shown you the Big Fall and you’re getting cross about _tea?”_ Crowley snorts. “Bloody ridiculous. I don’t know why I stick around.”

     “Because you _like_ me.” Even a year ago, the thought of saying it would have left Aziraphale in a cold sweat, but now it’s as easy as breathing, as natural as miracles. He gazes fondly at the demon, at the thin, sharp face framed by a mess of red hair. “And I’m rather fond of _you_ , my dear.”

     It could be his imagination, but Aziraphale thinks Crowley might be blushing. 

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't actually checked to see if Poundland sells wine. They sell what seems like everything...


End file.
